


An Equal And Opposite Reaction

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Morning After, Romance, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23132002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: They really have gone native. The both of them. A demon, curled up against a sleeping angel, who in Heaven or Hell could ever have imagined it?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 744
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Good Omens (Complete works), Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	An Equal And Opposite Reaction

Crowley wakes up with his face tucked into Aziraphale's neck, he's been warming the pale curve of it with his mouth, inhaling pure angel for however long he's been asleep. He can feel the spread of Aziraphale's fingers on his bare back, and the familiar, but unexpected, tugging pull on both shoulders, that tells him his wings are out. They're layered in an untidy fold, supported by his own arse and the bed behind him. He must have fallen asleep, some time after they'd tucked in against each other, a press of skin they'd both wanted to keep, after physically separating. Crowley's body had still been warm, thrumming with the languid bliss of orgasm and mutual affection. Aziraphale had murmured words behind his ear that thrilled him to the core, words he wouldn't admit to hearing, that he couldn't admit to hearing, not yet. But Aziraphale had left them there all the same.

He's not sure how long Aziraphale let him sleep for, he could give the stretch of linear time a brief prod to find out, but his body is a contented sprawl along the angel's side. He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to break this perfect moment. They've never been this close before, never indulged like this before. For all the times that Crowley had idly thought about the possibility of one day waking up next to Aziraphale, he'd never thought it would ever actually happen, never thought it would be something the universe would allow him.

But here he is, arm curled around the gentle swell of the angel's waist, one leg draped over one of Aziraphale's wider, heavier one, toes moving slowly and indulgently on the top of his foot. The angel is warm and soft, Crowley's bony joints and awkward angles perfectly fitted to every gentle rise and curve of Aziraphale's body. He feels, for perhaps the first time, as if he belongs here, as if they've finally settled where they were always meant to be. Even if part of him is still afraid that he'll ruin it somehow, half certain that if he tries to keep it, or tries to talk about what it means to him, that something will inevitably go wrong. Crowley knows himself well enough to suspect that will never entirely go away. But for now, for now it doesn't matter.

He tips his head back, ready to meet Aziraphale's eyes - only to find them closed. His lips are parted slightly, face utterly relaxed, head lolling gently against the pillows. The angel is asleep. Crowley has never seen him sleep before, he'd assumed Aziraphale had tried it and found it not to his taste. Since he's always had such dismissive things to say about the practice, not to mention his occasional frustration with Crowley's indulgence in it, his overindulgence in it. Though Crowley will always protest that sloth is appropriately demonic and expected, and is also a relatively quick and easy way to fill his quota of sin. Yet here Aziraphale is, quietly sleeping beside him, as if the angel trusts Crowley to watch over him, to not let anything happen to him. As if Crowley deserves this incredible vulnerability.

He carefully levers himself up onto a elbow, to see more of this rare and unexpected sight. Aziraphale's arm slides down his back, before settling against the sheets, but the rest of him doesn't stir. He is impossibly lovely - oh, Aziraphale would object, probably strongly, make a terrible fuss about it if Crowley insisted, because he's almost as bad at taking compliments as Crowley. Though he's much less inclined to snap, or bite, or press anyone against a wall, under them. He's never had to hoard them, never been afraid of them, never been punished for wanting them, never felt like a raw nerve at the realisation that every word was meant. But Aziraphale is, without doubt, _beautiful_ , especially to Crowley, who can see under the skin, can see every flaring, ethereal part of him, just as ancient as Crowley, just as inhuman. Though they fit inside their own bodies better than any angel or demon they've ever known - they fit inside each other's surprisingly well too, in every sense of the word. The thought of which still gives Crowley a uniquely complicated thrill of pleasure. And though he will never call it making love, at least not anywhere he can be overheard, there are no other words for what they'd done last night.

They really have gone native. The both of them. A demon, curled up against a sleeping angel, who in Heaven or Hell could ever have imagined it?

"I can feel you staring," Aziraphale murmurs, one pale blue eye sliding open to regard him.

Crowley exhales a laugh.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since you moved, I think." Aziraphale opens the other eye, smiles at him, and hides absolutely nothing of how happy he is. It makes Crowley's insides twist briefly, before he remembers that they can look at each other like that now. The hand that had slipped to the bed behind him lifts again, strokes and then spreads on the skin of Crowley's back, it seems surprised to find the rise of bone and muscle that becomes his wings. Crowley gives a low, humming sigh at the sensation of fingers on the border between human body and occult essence. Last night had been entirely physical, with the occasional impatient and helpful nudge from their powers. They hadn't strayed anywhere beneath the skin - though Crowley knows that if Aziraphale had asked, if he'd had even the slightest suspicion that it was something the angel had wanted. He would have opened his wings to him without question. He wonders if Aziraphale is considering the same thing, because his fingers exert the slightest pressure, draw him down and in.

Crowley goes willingly, wings slowly shifting upwards with the drift of fingers, shivering briefly at the possibility of them lifting and pushing up into the spray of feathers. Though he knows Aziraphale wouldn't, not without permission - as if Crowley wouldn't give him anything he wanted.

"I forgot how beautiful they were," Aziraphale admits, though quietly and carefully, as if he's not sure how Crowley is going to take the compliment. "You majestic creature, you."

Crowley grunts something cautiously accepting, pleased by how _wanted_ that makes him feel, but he's unwilling to give away how much by trying to form words. Instead he dips in and kisses the angel, indulges in him for a long handful of minutes, lets their legs tangle and their fingers entwine. Before he gently tugs Aziraphale to his knees, expanding the room and nudging furniture out of the way with a quick snap of power.

He's not sure how to ask, but the angel already knows what he wants, or it had been his intention all along. Aziraphale barely moves, just one slow blink and white expands behind him, arching upwards and then stretching out, feathers flaring open briefly, before settling in a fan of ethereal static.

"And you said I was beautiful," Crowley complains, tutting theatrically, then looping an arm round Aziraphale's waist and drawing him all the way in again, adjusting slightly for the new weight of him, their centre of gravity shifts upwards slightly when they pull their wings onto this plane. Crowley has always found that curious, that the metaphysical spread of their wings actually has physical mass on earth. He could pose the question to a scientist, but he suspects that they'd find his constant refusal to adhere to the laws of physics upsetting.

Aziraphale distracts him away from theoretical questions by pushing fingers into his hair and drawing him forward, kissing him again, and again. They'd spent so long not kissing, and something inside Crowley still aches with the knowledge that they're allowed to now, that Aziraphale wants to be kissed - by him specifically. He thinks, given a few thousand years, that perhaps he could get used to it.

He considers how to ask for what he wants, or whether he has to ask - Aziraphale has proven himself remarkably good at knowing what he desires. But the thought of it, of the angel's clever fingers in his feathers, sliding underneath, touching where he's never invited anyone else to touch -

Without Crowley really considering it his wings fold forward and in, and he's not entirely surprised to find that Aziraphale's own have copied the movement. They meet and then touch, a pressing rustle of feathers - and it feels like being stroked all the way through, one long, indulgent thrum of pleasure. It reminds Crowley of that first moment of unexpected intimacy, when they switched bodies, that quicksilver flare of surprised greeting as their true selves slid against each other, one spilling out and one spilling in. Only this is far more, this isn't a slithering uncertainty, it isn't a nudging test of another's corporation. It's something slower, curious and inviting, a tentative exploration of something deeper and more intrinsically them. Crowley is incapable of not seeking more of it.

Their long flight feathers drag deliciously against each other, a strange and shocking deepening of that intimacy that steals Crowley's breath and leaves him moaning into Aziraphale's mouth. Before their wings shift, ever so slightly, in exactly the right way, so their feathers brush past each other, and then _interlace_. 

The physical intimacy they'd already shared suddenly seems clumsy and desperate compared to this. This isn't a simple touch of essence, a brief meeting of their true forms. This feels more like Aziraphale is slowly spreading him open, like he's finding all the places Crowley has always ached for him, and fitting himself into them with a gentle determination. But it also feels as if Crowley's sinking into the luminous, ringing majesty of Aziraphale, spiralling into his deep waters, being drawn down and in, down and in.

Both sensations at the same time are completely overwhelming.

Aziraphale is calling his name, soft and surprised, then awed, fingers digging suddenly into his skin, trying to pull Crowley impossibly closer, but the sensation seems very far away. Crowley feels like he's unravelling, he can barely feel his corporation at all any more, everything of him is now also half-entwined with Aziraphale. He can feel the curl and twist of their essences, conflicting energies that find they don't repel each other but spiral around each other, down and in, braiding together in a way that should be impossible. They're a helix of dark and light, heat and cold, a low, vibrating hiss and a high, rising note of praise. 

Crowley is making a low, desperate noise in his throat, suddenly too big for his own skin, he has no idea how he ever managed to fit inside it, how it could be him when it was so very small. He's so filled with desire and love and certainty that he can't process it like this, physical forms don't have the words for it. 

Their wings shift, sliding deeper, black and white now inseparable, indivisible, their ozone, static charge suddenly grounding itself in each other, and the world splinters. Crowley splinters, there are a billion pieces of him and every one of them is also _Aziraphale_. He's so in love it's almost unbearable, and he's not the only one. _He's not the only one._

It goes on forever.

He wants to stay there forever.

-

But their wings eventually shiver and then shift apart, twitching faintly, as if they'd spent themselves.

Crowley is a singular being again.

He is a demon.

He is alone inside a human corporation.

He is deeply and irrevocably in love.

Crowley comes all the way back to himself eventually, finds that he's shakily, messily kissing Aziraphale, pressed awkwardly into the bed where they must have fallen. His fingers are so tight on the angel's arms that they've gone numb. His skin is over-sensitive, wings a heavy, limp drag down his back. His stomach is tacky and wet where it presses against Aziraphale's, the whole room smells like sex, and burnt feathers. He sincerely hopes that he's the one who caught fire.

"Crowley." Aziraphale's voice is cracked, he sounds completely undone.

Crowley groans a vague reply against his mouth, words are a bit beyond him at the moment. 

"I was not - I wasn't quite prepared for that," Aziraphale admits finally.

Crowley laughs, tries to put his wings away and finds them resistant to anything other than a feeble series of twitches. Aziraphale's are a gentle flutter of white, ruffled unbearably where they hang half off the side of the bed. Crowley wants to bury his hands in them, but his own are strangely sensitive, prickling gently - in a way that almost feels as if the angel is still touching him. He's loath to lose it just yet. Maybe later, maybe later Aziraphale will let Crowley set his feathers to rights, let him finger through them, and even the thought of it makes him shiver again.

"It's not like I make a habit of shoving my wings into anyone's else's," Crowley tells him. Not that he ever would. Not for anyone else. Never for anyone else.

"Could we, perhaps, make a habit of it?" Aziraphale asks tentatively. 

Crowley finds himself laughing against the angel's mouth, swallowing the resulting sound of amusement and delight when he kisses him again, before drawing his wings up to cover them both.


End file.
